Hermione's Epiphany
by snapemartyr
Summary: As Christmas encroaches, the final stretches of the past year after the war seem to bear down upon Hermione. She struggles to cope with images of the past which continually haunt her. When her thoughts lead her towards the edge of a great precipice, who will be there to pick her up? Oneshot/Ron & Hermione/Merry Christmas to my lovely readers! Please review me!


_**Author's Note:**_

**The true feeling of love can never be faked. JKR's ending still felt rather complete to me. You will be very happy to know that there is a happy ending to this piece, in spite of its dark perspective. I hope that it will bring some of us the peaceful closer that we, and her characters so deeply burn for. **

**This piece takes place one year after the trio has defeated Voldemort. The story, which takes place during the first Christmas after the Dark Lord has gone, focuses upon Hermione's perspective. It moves through her grief as she struggles to cope with hidden pain, which has followed her since the end of the war. It is Ron and Hermione-centered. If you have any questions about it, don't hesitate to PM me. **

**So without further ado, I wish everyone a Merry Christmas. **

_**Note**_**: This piece is dedicated to my phenomenal and lovely friend Lily Sun, who inspired me to write it.**

**Warning: thoughts of suicide (nearly attempted) and depression, BUT- this piece has an exceptionally happy end to make up for it.**

**Last note: I am aware of the fact that there was not technically a male singer in the band called 'The Weird Sisters,' so please refrain from flooding my inbox with the thought- much appreciated!**

* * *

**Hermione's Epiphany ~**

Hermione had never before felt so lonely. It was impossible to describe the pain of silence more, than when she nestled down into her bed and flexed her toes. The tips of those sensitive numbs met with nothing but air. She attempted to pull the blanket away from her legs, and received naught but a billowing whiff from the window. Huffing, she removed herself from the bedridden volcano of tangling mess, and walked over to the window. There was only a weak light streaming through the pane of glass. She peered out for several minutes. She didn't even hear the door open behind her.

"'Mione?" She turned. Ron had walked into the girl's dormitory, disregarding the image that it now gave, for the remnants seemed to portray the ghosts of what had once been. The issues of soft light now glimmered over what she thought to be a shadow-land. The grandeur of the Hogwart's castle that once was, now lived in the flaps of a storybook. Since the war, Hermione had been able to do nothing against the onslaught, save to close her eyes against the travesty that pervaded. She found herself again feeling suddenly felt weak-kneed. As she leaned against the window, her hand caught upon the ledge. Before she knew what had happened, Ron had taken the hand in his, and now started to stroke it.

"Ron," she said, in a tone barely above a murmur. She felt her words closing into a tight, thick stitch. Her thoughts would be sewed into her through forever, as there was nothing to say. As though he sensed her foreboding emotions, he pulled her closer. He was unable to give her any type of consolation, however, for they saw the same vision. To Hermione it was a sea of death, a black, ruinous base upon which her world had once been a harmony of work and friendship. There was an empty chasm inside her soul which no one could seem to break, and she had no wish to tear it down.

Bony, blistered arms, which were embittered by their tiresome journey, enveloped her. There was no room at the moment for any heartfelt closure. All she could hear in her soul was the everlasting whine of death that streamed into infinity. Destruction coursed through her veins by way of all of her ventricles. She wanted the doom to halt its progress, but there was no halting its churning head. The world as she had once known it was destroyed now forever. And, upon the burnished halls of Hogwarts, she only saw- or rather felt- the ghosts of the students who had swelled within it, once. Since the war had ended, the chatting portraits, gaieties of everyday life had become a catacomb of death. For, where the portraits lay were often frames that rattled, and many of the castle's students had died, forfeiting life for love.

She looked into Ron's gaze listlessly and she could feel no warmth. They heat which they emptied into her silent breast was not merely of its own, comforting trait. Rather, the warmth was a falsehood against which she could not cast herself away, and she felt herself floating. She wanted to gaze upon Ron's freckled face and left meld into his eyes, but any thought given away from her heart was impossible. So, she slowly, as though painfully aware of her actions- lifted his hand and placed it down at her side. He opened his mouth at her. She was falling into a world without an end and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

"'Mione, what-" She banished his arms from where they laid entrusted. His voice had become rather hoarse, she noticed, and it sounded as though it were struggling to not break. However, Hermione found that she could not bring herself to care. She broke the train all ideas attached to Ronald Weasely from her mind, her heart. She gazed back over the grounds and watched as her heart fled to the soft moon of her invasion. She shook her head valiantly, trying to shake away all the thoughts which it attempted to impede upon her. It was not one in which she could enter so demurely, and her fight was one in which she could truly see.

She swallowed bitterly. His eyes were absolutely gorgeous. She watched him with the last look of desperation, as though to cleave upon those burnished lashes, the fireplace in which speckled flakes hung onto the crested iris in each- she let her hands fall to the sullied window's ledge.

"Hermione," he whispered again. Hermione could say nothing back to him. There was no generation of thought, windmill to her distress. What only lived now was some kind of unspoken truce between them, a break between their actual needs, and wants. Slowly he backed away from her. Like a ghost who withdrew from the flesh of a tangible night which it shied from, so as not to get too close to that physical entity which it most feared, she left. There was nothing for them to say from each other. Before she knew what had happened, she'd started running.

* * *

Hermione flew through the corridors, not stopping to take measure of her pace. She flew past the abandoned paintings of Hogwarts without so much as a glance, and behind those with flavor, who seemed to be sailing through the night with banana-colored hats, and party wear for wizards. There was an extra slice of orange on an odd little man's head, and the festivities seemed to glare upon her. She was mocked at every turn and end, caught up in the nefarious labyrinth which focused to cut her into shreds of conscience. She should not have torn herself away from Ron. She should not be running. She should be facing her demons as would a Gryffindor worthy to be part of the Golden Trio. And, yet, here she was . . . running away from these ridiculous, happy . . . banana colored tea parties . . .

Suddenly she had the urge to vomit. All of these paintings glorified by their celebrations caught her. She wanted nothing more than to start screaming at them that they were not worthy. Not one of the figures in these frames could have wiped the soles from Snape's feet, and none of them could have spoken to Lupin or Tonks in the absence of a shame which she knew they did not feel . . . they should have felt it, though. It was unnecessary for them to be so happy that all of the brave members of the Order had died.

Although she streamed full sail through the school, she saw nothing but mocking outrage. It traveled up through her breast, coursing through every tiny ventricle in her blood without pause for to breathe. Her very blood was a flowing rush spurned by a hastily-pumped heart, one which did not give her the ability to stop. Her breathing felt as erratic as her soul, a slice of conscience which found its way back in a course of harsh punishment. There was a swarming red haze that was swarming through her eyes, making her dizzy with its spectacle. Hermione was filled with an enigmatic sadness all of a sudden. All of this might make itself forever a part of her life.

She whispered a stuttered prayer, but it fell, like a small, insignificant molecule, from the air that her lips breathed. She wondered what the point of living was, sometimes. How could she possibly give herself any kind of freedom to live a normal life, when all her world was crafted from the shards of ice? The frigidity lived within her heart unbeknownst to every living species, not even her own conscience. She reached a hand up to her lips softly, and, to her surprise, she found that they were trembling. An unspoken silence, which seemed to interact with her soul, had seeped into the folds of her sick spirit. She had cloaked it in utter darkness so long, that it no longer held any merit for her. All of her world was benumbed. Slowly, as though she were unaware of the action, she lifted her eyes to the windowless dome above her.

It seemed that somehow, she had followed the trek which led into the Astronomy Tower, and stood now, staring into the door to the high balcony, which was ahead of her. There were footsteps beneath the room. She traveled to the edge of what appeared to be a shimmering moment, and stood outside, in timeless thought.

* * *

"Hermione." She didn't know how long she had stood there, staring out into the sea of blackened gloom which had swiftly fell upon all the sleeping inmates of the timeless bed which War had silently, fluidly almost- it seemed to her somehow- lovingly, tucked them into. They were so comfortably embedded in the great trek of the bed War provided, that they would never wake. She would never see again the faces of Remus or Tonks, or Fred . . . she blinked her eyes several times as though to understand the complexity of that statement. A hand was softly nudging against a sore spot. It felt sticky against her. She looked up, albeit unwillingly.

She saw that Ron had followed her up to the Tower, and that he was now rubbing his hand against a slick spot of sweat that congealed on her skin. She watched the small damp stain for a minute, fascinated by its existence. It seemed strange to her that the entirety of the world was hung upon a meager, insecure wreath of garland, or a bulbous portrayal of earthenware stuck on a silly tree. She felt words stick into her throat that made her world spin sickeningly.

At the same moment, she felt herself fall against the granite ledge. It felt as though she was being pulled back from a great precipice, back to the Earth. Scrawny, weather-beaten brown arms spotted with fiery freckles smeared her view. Immersing her in clouds of orange dusk that flowed out from his touches, down over her face, they moved as though playing the piano. She could not help but to watch those hands slowly button up the posterior of her blouse. She was totally detached from it. She was watching as though analyzing from the exterior, looking inside of an orb that was made for her own delight. It was a delight which she could never enter within, for she was not built inside.

Hands moved across the line of gray as though they were playing the piano. She felt that she was drowning within a sea of smearing red, which, though burnished, immersed her soul in every regard. At that moment, for an inexplicable reason she felt disgust with herself. A marmalade which she could not eat, congealing in gross globs, invaded her bloodstream, stopping the heart from its normal beat. She bowed her head in wholesome shame, unwritten and mistook. How was it that it belonged to her?

She swallowed back her whirling tears. It had been too long. No, no, she would not cry. She refused to cry for what she had lost. She had not cried up until this moment, and she refused to lose her hold on her emotions at any point. However, just as she ran her hand lightly over the edge of the banister, gangly arms fell around her chest, pulling her back into the safety of the alcove.

"HERMIONE GRANGER, WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?" Before she could blink an eye within that moment, she was thrust up against the wall, and she couldn't move. Electricity began to crackle beneath her eyelids, and she felt a strange surge of vertigo sweep through her body. She began to sag, and her breathing quicken. She struggled to turn her head away from him.

"Ron, don't-" His face was almost touching hers it was so close. She could practically feel the air from his mouth sliding against her cheeks, and it caused a faint, shivering feeling to slip throughout her body. She did not wish to provide a welcome to the thoughts that now beleaguered her.

"Just what do you think you are doing?" he asked her yet again, his voice strangely blank. The whiffs from his mouth were making rippling sensations against her cheeks. They were forming the strangest thumping rhythm in the cold air, as though they were tiny little drumbeats. She attempted to make her mind utterly cool.

"I just- I just needed a place to think," she answered, still looking everywhere but at him. "Ron, let me go. Ron-" He finally released her, and she fell against the wall. She fell back against it and looked at him, unsure of what she could say. There was nothing that could be done, however.

"You needed a place to think?" he spat the words in a vaguely uncharacteristic manner. Hermione felt a chill of another kind run through her. She stared at him quietly for several moments.

"Well?" he asked her. She looked anywhere but at him. Visions of measureless death swept shimmered about her, and swept her into the tide of the enormity that was speaking at its disposal. She wanted nothing but to leave the context, to move away from the ghosts that were haunting her soul, but . . . there was no relief. Images ran through her brain like a film that she could not halt, a smooth, infinite stream of merciless horror . . . . They shimmered softly, lacing around like ghosts with tails that floated in the mist of belonging. She looked into Lupin's eyes sadly, and Fred's eyes, even the eyes of Snape and Albus Dumbledore . . .

Random images of young girls flowed back into her sight. Young, pink cherry lips that were like buttons of woolly lace, hanging from their merry faces. She was immersed in smiles that she would never see again, and bulbous nubs of little noses that glowed from beneath the soft light of innocence . . . they was gone, and gone forever . . . Hermione knew with every ounce of energy that could not bring it back. She felt dizzy beneath their sensuous revival, and felt as though she were living through that horrible, mindless stretch, that epiphany at the end of the war when she realized, for once and for all, that her world had again vanished . . . the traits of the light that Hogwarts had once brought would not return to her in this life . . . the stretch had been rolled out beneath her. She felt like screaming, like crying out to the Gods above to hear her, against this horrible fate which was now hers. . . but she could do nothing . . . . she might wail and scream, and kick, and rebel, but still nothing would change.

And, as she looked into Ron's eyes now something in her broke. She could not determine the reason for which this enigmatic fate had been offered. Her world was gone, and what could he now do about it?

"Ron, don't you understand? Everything that Hogwarts once stood for is now gone," she told him, unable to express herself freely. "Your brother, Fred, is gone, and everything that we once knew, is gone. The headmaster is gone, and halls are burned, and our dorm is a barely existent scrap." He stood as erect as a board and stared down at her, his eyes swirling with some emotion that she could not see. Then he sat down beside her, and rested his head on his hands.

"I'm sorry, Ron," she started, hesitantly. Unable to see a reason to continue, she fell silent.

"There are a lot of reasons that people die in a war, 'Mione," he said finally, no longer looking at her. She found herself unable to answer, but merely continued to stare down at her knees. "You can't go through your whole life living in a war that hinges upon your present one. That's- " he seemed to struggle for a minute- "that's completely that is. With your exceptional mind I thought you would have found the solutions, even when they are hidden beneath the surface." he told her, now looking at her directly. She stared down at the palms of her hands, her words shut tightly behind her sealed lips.

"I know," she muttered, feeling slightly ashamed. "You don't need to tell me that there are very few reasons for what has occurred, or that we need to move past it." He shook his head, and her eyes momentarily distracted by the bright glow which shook itself out like a bizarrely-colored bird before the black.

"That's not what I mean." She looked at him wonderingly, unsure of what he meant. Slowly, and blissfully, his arms suddenly encircled her torso. He pulled her to him quickly and she gasped slightly, the movement taking her by surprise. He began to rub negligent circles into her back, as though he were hesitating. She looked into his face and realized that his face held an odd green color in it. All of a sudden, she almost wanted to laugh. He smiled back at her faintly, and she noticed that he was swallowing rapidly. The gesture almost made her smile, bringing back to her memories, momentarily, of when they were younger. Something inside her seemed to break-

"Oh, Ron," she whispered.

* * *

**Two Days Later ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

She was humming to herself as she watched the elves of Hogwarts swarm throughout the Great Hall. Holly dangled from every small enclosure, and she noted the marked castle emblems which studied over the enormous catacomb of the beastly maze of haphazard, running elves. She nearly laughed as one drew up beside her, and attempted to move her legs so that it was better able to reach the chair legs upon which she sat. After the House-Elf ran off, she looked bemusedly at the tiny wreath of what could only be deemed holly hanging off of it. Although the pretty little white pinnacle did not look remotely like a wreath, or a flower either, she knew that it must have had _something_ to do with Christmas . . . she heard a random laugh coming from beside her.

"They are enthusiastic little creatures." Hermione smiled at Ginny. Her untamed red hair was pulled back into a subdued bun that looked a little out of place over her bright, mischievous seeming green eyes. She thought to herself what a difficulty it must be for Harry to put up with her on so many different levels, but then, come to think of it, her personality was not so different from his own . . .

The Weird Sisters started playing music behind them. She turned towards the stage finally, and noticed the wide array of musicians scattered about the dais upon which the professors of Hogwarts (those who were still remaining) sat. The students who were scattered around the four tables began to dance on the moment, as though their lives had revolved around the inertia of that one act, which had lain quietly in their heart's dungeons but to spring up now, obnoxiously, to the heart of the wide Great Hall. Feet pattered across the floor in untrammeled merriment, and, for a minute, Hermione felt herself being swept away into the tide of the malarkey.

As she found herself listening to the wild beats of the rather unorthodox musicians and gangly forms, Harry suddenly approached her. She had not seen him coming, and when his hand touched her shoulder it startled her, causing her to jump.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly, but she waved him aside. She brushed herself off, faintly embarrassed.

"It's alright. I wasn't paying much attention," she admitted. He smiled at her ruefully. Then, with a wide arc towards the front, he gave a slight grimace.

"Imagine inviting them over, eh? I never thought that Rufus Srimgeour had any kind of a humor." The corners of her lips quirked up, and she shrugged. She did think it rather odd that he had decided to organize a Hogwarts Christmas party, but then, perhaps it might have added to his efforts at image. She could not pretend that she did not understand the importance of maintaining the right perspective, especially for the parents who did not want their kids to return to school- starting in August, the staff had finally started to become hopeful of the return of Hogwarts to its original state.

"'Yeah, well . . . I don't think that it was entirely his idea." He looked at her questioningly. She quickly gestured towards the staff table where Professor McGonagall was sitting with a Weird Sisters logo pasted on the front of her hat. Harry stared at her for a minute with his mouth open. Hermione chuckled slightly. He finally shook his head, as though the entire world had ended, unable to comprehend the sight of her perhaps. A minute later he plopped down next to her, as though he'd mentally given up any hope of ever finding sanity once again. Ginny shielded her mouth with her hands and leaned towards them. Both Harry and Hermione came in close.

"Just between us, I think that McGonagall secretly had a crush on the male member of the band for years." The two of them glanced up to where she now gestured, and took stock of McGonagall's face. Sure enough, she was staring at the band in front of her with a rather scrupulous eye trained upon the man wearing the odd purple bowler cast lightly to the side. In that minute, Hermione was sure that she had never seen anything less rational in her whole life . . .

* * *

An hour later, she found herself walking outside of the entrance hall with her hands stuffed deeply into her pockets. She generally walked with a more regal stance, but her wand was her guidance, and to regulate daily life she never removed it from her hands. She adhered to every vibration of her magic, and she could never help it . . . soon, she unconsciously found herself walking up to the mistletoe lacing over her head in a glorious bundle. The House-Elves had outdone themselves so much, that the portrayal given was almost sickeningly poignant. Staring up at the voluptuous folds of white ribbon and sash, she was momentarily put in mind of Delores Umbridge's office . . . she shuddered.

For some, inexplicable reason, she continued to wander . . . she walked up beside the mistletoe arching over the various nooks, crannies, and more admittedly unique traits of the Hogwarts castle. Setting aside her musings over the varieties that offered her a rather unique view of the founders, she walked underneath the vibrant grandeur. White, gold, red and green plaques expanded above her head, in an aloof, refined fashion. She had her doubts of whether there was any lack of esteem ever provided to the secrets, beauties, and unsurpassed marvels of Hogwarts. She was sure that even someone who came from its darker contexts, such as Draco Malfoy, must be in awe of its works every time he passed beneath its reaches. And, as she gazed upon the white and gold plaques that adorned names which she could not read, she felt humbled. Christmas itself in this context, took on a sinister note.

Christmas wreaths hung like holly from every awning, but Hermione was not able to appreciate them. Strings of swaying garland wrapped themselves around every single archive and stretch of wall, reminding her of the way she'd proved her insignificance. Memories of what had occurred two nights ago streamed up before her, assaulting her with their rough, and almost rancid memories. Hogwarts was so splendiferous, there could be no discerning the depth of this décor. She felt rather sad at the idea that she was unable to appreciate all of this beauty, as she clenched her glinting red nails together tightly.

However, as she heard footsteps come up behind her, she smiled to herself faintly yet again. His hand came to a rest upon her shoulder, and she made an attempt to speak. Her mouth formed into a wide, cherry-red 'o,' that caught him by surprise. Then there was a moment of something- something trait or light- an inexplicable epiphany which fell between them. Her world was suddenly alighted by shades of regaling gold, and white . . . and, then . . . she really saw what was in front of her. Ronald Weasely's freckled red face, burned tan by the days of weather-beaten war, and the sun, his hands (which were infallibly too wide for him), his feet which were infallibly to large, and his overly long legs- how perfect they all seemed to her.

The expression on her face seemed to take Ron by surprise, and for a minute, she merely looked up at him. Then, as though grasped by a sudden bout of inertia, he found himself moving towards her. She walked towards him as well, without a moment's thought.

Her arms moved up carefully, and her arms, as exquisite as a rag doll without a purpose (as though she herself was completely, blissfully unaware of the movement) came towards her. He wrapped her in his own around her tightly, and, as euphoria filled them both, they moved into the fold. Her lips brushed up against his, freed and without scruple, and moved to kiss him. The sensation was as soft as eiderdown, and Hermione slowly moved her hands in a jerky move against his ear. The honey-brown color of her hands moved in front of his vision again, and she gently pushed him away from her. The air between them was made out of golden phoenix songs that sang without the need for assistance. It was one, melodious, raucous song of joy and glorified notes of the earth . . .

"Ron," she whispered. He could not speak to her, save to make an odd, gurgling, strangled sound. She didn't care. Sparks of blue, silver, gold, red, and green were sparkling throughout her vision, and, as she stepped back for a minute, and looked around breathlessly, her heart was filled with an irrational joy at the sight. She looked back at him again, her small, round mouth forming a little red moue- it hung from her face most dazzlingly. And, before she knew it, she heard voices behind her. As she turned, she spotted Luna was suddenly spinning towards them, her wild white hair flying about her face like a brutal tigress. After a minute, Ginny and Harry followed her, and then she saw them all. A smile of the most untrammeled type lit up her face as she really saw them at last, for who they were. Harry's hair, which was infinitely unkempt and many, Ginny's spattered freckles and orbs of burning lights, were suddenly more precious to her than anything on Earth. Unlike any kind of revelation that had occurred, this one alone was right and true.

She quickly untangled herself from Ron's embrace. He stepped over to the side watching the scene from the side, quietly, with an inscrutable expression on his face. The quiet procession of the four struck a deep, incomprehensible, but epic note. She watched them with the silence that an unsung angel might, who knew of their ethereal beauty in the only way that an angel possibly could. For the first time ever, she could see who they really were, and her heart sang with a wholesome peace, one that she could barely endure. She gave Ron one, fleeting glance, and he gave a nearly imperceptible nod. With an immense effort of will, she extricated herself from a bond that- up until this point, had been inexplicable- and she ran, she ran flying with a delight that she had ever known, at her friends. The first one whom she met was Harry, and he wrapped her in the deepest embrace. She said nothing to him for a full minute, but words that clogged in her were unnecessary.

The hug seemed to last for an infinity, but Harry did not seem inclined to break it. When they broke apart, there were tears pouring from her eyes, tears that, she now realized, she had long been a stranger to. When she looked up at him in embarrassment, she noticed, to her surprise, that his eyes were shining, and this almost caused her to embrace him yet again.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, dabbing at her eyes with her sleeves, "I don't know what's come over me today." She glanced around at Luna and Ginny. Luna was giving her a serene smile that she found comforting, and her face held nothing but understanding. Ron, who had walked over to them as soon as she and Harry broke apart, was rubbing comforting circles into her back. "I'm- I guess I just realized . . . how much you all really mean to me." She gave a small, tremulous smile, and before she knew it, Harry had embraced her again. While being held in his arms, she noticed that Ginny's eyes looked suspiciously misty. She gave a faint laugh.

"Well . . . do you all want to go out to Hogsmeade with me?" She looked over at Ron, as they broke away again. "I've- I've got some presents that I wish to buy for you, and I don't want to . . . well . . . miss anybody . . . or anything . . . " He smiled at her. She was struck again by the fiery nature his image provided. Ginny was the one to break the spell that had captured them finally.

"I think that's a great idea. I, for one, could use an extra chocolate bar from Zonko's. I'm so sick of eating mum's salads . . . " The five of them gave an uproarious laugh that seemed faintly unsuited to the equation. As they walked out into the Great Hall once again and made towards the doors though, to Hermione, it was the best sound that she, at least, had ever heard . . .

* * *

**Note:** **Please leave me gift review :) It will be my return gift for the efforts that I put into this piece. I will shamelessly admit that I struggled through the whole of Christmas Eve night to get this to you, please, please repay my efforts. Don't leave my heart shivering in the snow . . . warm me with holiday love and cookies :)**


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